


Wrath

by AGlassRoseNeverFades



Series: Our Sins [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, I Don't Know This Story Just Got Away From Me Somehow, Like Seriously the Title is Wrath But There's More Angst Than Anger Here, M/M, Season Two Spoilers (Obviously), The Gun Scene in Hannibal's Kitchen From Yakimono, The Return of Actual Love Triangle Elements in this Weird Love Triangle, Will is in Some Pretty Serious Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGlassRoseNeverFades/pseuds/AGlassRoseNeverFades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will struggles to maintain a good grasp of who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrath

**Author's Note:**

> This installment is notably tamer than the rest, but I gave it the Mature rating simply in light of the context of the rest of this series. Also included the Graphic Depictions of Violence warning just in case the threat of possible gun violence is enough to trigger anyone reading (pun most definitely NOT intentional). Just as with the scene from Yakimono, however, gun violence does not actually occur.

Will feels like one of them should say something now, just to break the silence that’s fallen, though it’s strangely not an awkward one. There’s something almost companionable, conspiratorial even, about the three of them standing here, quietly observing one another—Chilton, leaning forward on his cane, quarter-turned so that he’s facing Will but can still see Matthew Brown out of the corner of his peripheral. Will, in rumpled clothes and a jacket that fit too loosely around his shoulders, an outfit that should feel better all the same than the jumpsuit he’s grown accustomed to, but doesn’t. And Matthew, leaning up against the cold metal bars, hands clasped in front of him and one shoulder wedged snugly between two of the bars, in a manner that shouldn’t look comfortable, but does.

Will finds he has no words to break this odd moment passing between them, so instead he lightly, almost tentatively, rests his fingertips against the door to his cell and _pushes._

It swings out once like the pendulum in his brain, and does not swing back.

“Mr. Graham,” says Chilton, as though in answer to the high-pitched squeal of its metallic hinges, “there is nothing I would like more than to see Hannibal Lecter occupy that very cell you’re standing in.”

Will steps out. A coil of nerves and dread shoots down his spine at those words, his eyes darting automatically away from the hospital administrator to the occupant of the cell opposite. Matthew smiles warmly, like he knows exactly which half-formed thoughts are causing Will the most stress and wants to reassure him.

Will turns his head back to Chilton, his eyes cast on the ground as he asks, “Could I…have a moment?” He doesn’t see the way Chilton’s eyes dart back and forth between him and Brown, or the tight smile that forms on his lips as he says, “Of course.”

He waits until the clack of the man’s cane against the concrete floor reaches the end of the corridor before he looks up again. Matthew has twisted around to better face him, one arm resting casually along the horizontal bar while the other dangles at his side, his ankles crossed. Will wonders how he can look so at ease in there while Will stands on the outside, feeling anything but.

“So, gonna come back and visit me sometime?”

Will is surprised and honestly a little agitated by how easily, impulsively, he wants to say yes, but he holds himself back from making any such promise. He tries not to think about how much this game has changed since it first began or wonder who is manipulating whom anymore. “No, I…I don’t know. I think I’ll be kind of…busy for awhile.”

Matthew just nods, accepting. Will had been expecting more of a reaction than this—has in truth been waiting for the other shoe to drop since Chilton told him he’s been cleared of all charges and slated for release. Yet when Will looks, there is no echo of resentment or betrayal on Matthew’s face, only the same fondness that’s always been there. And suddenly Will understands.

“You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

Every one of Matthew’s smiles always manages to convey so much, in a way that is oddly both like and unlike one of Hannibal Lecter’s. _(Don’t think about that.)_ This one carries the same fondness for Will, but it’s sharper and darkly satisfied in a way that Will believes it shouldn’t be. “I’ve known for awhile,” he says.

“Why…?” _Why didn’t you say anything? Why do you still look at me like that then?_

Matt shrugs, but his smile remains the same and belies the nonchalance of the gesture. _You and Lecter really are the same,_ Will suddenly wants to spew hatefully, just to see a different reaction from him. He curls his hands into fists unconsciously and doesn’t say anything.

“He’s gonna try to suck you back in,” says Matt, his smile dropping away, and Will doesn’t need to ask who he means. It bothers him (or _should_ bother him) how often their thoughts seem to follow along the same wavelengths. _(“You and I are hawks, Mr. Graham.”)_

There is concern for Will in Matthew’s voice, but it’s also so laced with the implication of violence against anyone who would dare try to lay claim on what’s _his,_ that Will honestly doesn’t know how to feel about it. He doesn’t know how to feel about a lot of things lately.

“Let him try,” says Will. _I’m counting on it._

Matthew pulls himself up straighter, free hand now gripped tightly around one of the bars. _A strangler’s hands._ Will wonders if he’s ever killed someone that way before. There’s still so much he doesn’t know, has been afraid to ask.

“So that’s how it is,” says Matt, his voice tight and barely constrained as he instantly grasps what Will’s plan is. Will wishes he understood how he got himself involved with two very different psychopaths who can somehow both inexplicably read his mind at times, while the rest of the world continues to give him the same blank, slack-jawed stares it always has, observing him curiously yet comprehending nothing.

Then again, maybe he doesn’t want to know the answer to that.

_I have to do this,_ he wants to say defensively. _I know you don’t like it, but can’t you see? It’s the only way I’ll catch him._ He bites back the words on his tongue. He does not owe this man an explanation, and will likely never see him again unless he’s subpoenaed to testify at his trial.

He tells himself the tremor that runs through him at that thought has only to do with the anxiety of a possible impending court date.

“Will, _please,”_ Matthew says when the ex-profiler doesn’t respond to him, and Will has to fight off another tremor. He keeps his gaze on Matthew’s hands so he doesn’t have to see his face, doesn’t have to read the question he knows is written there— _What if you’re the one who gets caught instead?—_ and doesn’t have to admit to himself that he shares in that fear.

“Goodbye, Matt,” he says. Then he spins on his heel and walks to the end of the hallway where Chilton is waiting. He reminds himself as he goes that the man is a killer, one only marginally less monstrous than the Ripper himself, and tells himself that it does not matter if he is walking away from the only person who will actually care if Will gets trapped within his own net.

*

The weight of the gun in his hand is a reassuring one. The other man fulfills his own role well, playing the part of the scarred would-be victim at first without overdoing it, then slipping easily back into psychiatrist mode as he asks, “How would it feel to kill me, Will?”

_“Righteous,”_ he answers, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining things when he sees the slight upturn of Hannibal’s lips as he says it. Up to this point, Will has kept a rigid control over his own emotions, careful only to give the _appearance_ of a man about to boil over into a sharply-honed fury and spatter his ex-psychiatrist’s brains all over the pristine kitchen walls. That almost-smile does things to him though. It always has.

Seeing it stokes the very real rage lurking within his theatrical little performance. It also makes him viscerally proud of himself for evoking such an obvious sign of approval, like a trained animal eager to please its master.

He feels sick when he realizes it, almost ready to drop the gun in his hand and flee while he still can.

He forces himself to step closer instead, right into the man’s personal space, press the gun right up to his temple, and cock it back. _Intimate,_ just not quite in the way Hannibal wants. Not yet at least, and that thought sends a frission down his spine that he doesn’t want to analyze too deeply, not wanting to know whether the disgust outweighs the anticipation or if it’s the other way around.

Something dark rumbles within him and practically purrs at the sight of the man’s flinch. He resists the frightening animalistic urge to pull his lips back from his teeth in a low snarl. He has no idea if this is a true victory or simply another manipulation meant to elicit just such a response. He simply has no way of telling with the man anymore, if he ever did. He doesn’t know what to trust, so he trusts nothing, not even himself in this moment.

He leaves immediately afterward, dissatisfied and itching to pull the trigger, confident in nothing except for this—that if nothing else, he certainly has Hannibal’s attention again. Not that he’s sure he ever managed to shake it off to begin with.

He only hopes he can keep it up long enough to take Lecter down, and without losing too much of himself in the process.


End file.
